by Monica Belle
Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Monica Belle
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Copyright
About the Book
This is the story of Lucy Doyle, a red-haired and hot-tempered London Irish girl with her eyes on the prize – and young men’s trousers. Her family have got her a job in a Parochial House in North London for the summer, between leaving school and going to university, but she signs up as an office temp, faking her reference and chancing her luck. Along with fellow recruits – the ladylike but filthy Bobbie and the completely dirty Sophie – this cheeky ‘flower of Erin’ carves a swathe of debauchery through London’s office land, collecting lovers, outraging her bosses and drinking far too much as she causes havoc in the way only a bad girl can.
About the Author
Monica Belle is an Oxbridge graduate and the author of several successful Black Lace novels, including Black Lipstick Kisses, Bound in Blue, Noble Vices, Office Perks, Pagan Heat, The Boss, The Choice, To Seek a Master, Valentina’s Rules, Wild By Nature and Wild in the Country.
Other books by Monica Belle:
Noble Vices
Valentina’s Rules
Wild in the Country
Wild by Nature
Office Perks
Monica Belle
1
19 July, 10.45 a.m. – Lucy Doyle arrives at St Bernold’s Parochial House.
19 July, 2.40 p.m. – Father Donald Jessop delivers a lecture on morality, with particular emphasis on the impropriety of accepting the lingam in the oral cavity.
19 July, 2.41 p.m. – Lucy Doyle is advised to seek alternative employment.
‘“ACCEPTING THE LINGAM in the oral cavity!” Pompous old fart. If he doesn’t want me to give the gardener blowjobs, why can’t he just say so?’
What else was I supposed to do? The job was beyond boring, and all the stuff they’d given me about developing my spiritual side was just crap. Forty pounds a week, to play skivvy to a bunch of priests! There is such a thing as a minimum wage, and I told Father Jessop this in no uncertain terms. He said I should be honoured to serve God. That was lecture number two. Lecture number one was on being late, because I was supposed to be there from seven-thirty, followed by the unsuitability of wearing a skinny top and low-rise jeans while working for him. Lecture number three was about the cock-sucking.
OK, so if I’d wanted to keep the job perhaps I should have offered to suck Father Jessop off as well – or rather, to take his lingam in my oral cavity – but I’m not that sort of girl. He’d dropped enough hints, in-between lecturing me. Even when he’d told me off for showing too much flesh his eyes had been firmly on what he wanted covered. Then came the compliments. First there was how pretty my curly orange hair looks like against my white skin – or, to put it another way, I look like a partially bleached carrot but he’d still like to get into my knickers. Then there was how ‘decorative’ I looked, a true ‘flower of Erin’ – meaning firm little tits and a toned round bum which he would dearly like to get out of my knickers. Lastly there’s how fragile and innocent I looked, how naïve; maybe naïve enough to be talked into wanking him off with my knickers?
Maybe not, but that’s what Father Emanuel Slyrm wanted our Siobhan to do, and she a choir girl, too. I wouldn’t, not with either of them, but I would with Todd Byrne, and I did. He was my type of man, six foot and more, with hands so big I could imagine sitting on one and him lifting me up. Strong too, like a bull, all muscle, and mature; mature enough to know what he wanted; mature enough to accept my approach at face value.
I was only supposed to take him a mug of tea, but just the smell of man and earth was enough to get me horny, never mind the sight of him. I was bored. I was pissed off with the way Father Jessop treated me. I wanted to feel like a woman, not an accessory. Todd was nice, too, joking with me and making me feel good about myself. So I took his cock out and sucked him off, with my mouth full of hot tea, which is a great way to get the boys going.
He took it right in his stride, stroking my hair as he grew hard in my mouth, and letting me decide how deep he went. I’d seldom had such a gorgeous cock to play with, so big and smooth and silky. He didn’t rush, or try to push me further, but let me take my time, really getting the taste and feel of him into my senses, until I wanted to come. I’d have done it too. One hand down my knickers, a few deft touches and I’d have been there, in heaven. Maybe not Father Jessop’s heaven but heaven all the same, with my mouth full of big, hard cock and my fingers well down in the crease of my pussy. I pulled my bra out so I could play with my nipples, and was just unfastening my jeans when Father Jessop came in.
So there I was, standing in a Kilburn back street on a hot summer’s afternoon, my pre-university work experience well up the Swanee and wondering what to do with myself. Home was out, because Mum was not going to be pleased, and no doubt Father Jessop would have already been on the phone. I’d get a lecture. I’d get compared with Mary. I’d get compared with Mary and Siobhan. Maybe I’d even get compared with Mary and Siobhan and Tara.
What I needed was to come home with a job that paid real money. That would shut them up. On second thoughts, knowing them it probably wouldn’t, but it would make me feel better. Not that I was feeling bad, not really. I knew I should have felt guilty, but I didn’t. Guilt just isn’t my thing, which is odd, because my family do guilt like we do drink. I guess it’s the Irish Catholic prerogative.
Instead I felt happy and excited, with the memory of sucking Todd Byrne’s cock fresh in my mind and the prospect of freedom ahead of me. I could do anything, anything at all . . . well, almost anything. Well, not a lot really, but I didn’t care. Flipping burgers was better than Father Jessop.
Maybe a McJob was the answer. I wanted a slice of life, to meet new people, different people, fun girls, sexy men. Working in a burger bar, a pub, a restaurant, I’d get plenty. On the other hand, I wouldn’t get much money and I’d be at work in the evenings. I wanted my evenings to myself, and the insultingly small amount I’d been offered at the parochial house had made me want to earn more.
I’d been wandering aimlessly down Maida Vale, and stopped at a newsagents to buy a notebook and a pen. There was a coffee bar nearby, but one look at the price of an espresso and I’d decided against it. A low wall and a can of something cold served instead of the coffee and fancy-looking tables and chairs, and after a moment’s thought I opened my notebook and began writing.
What does Lucy want to do?
The answer was, laze around, get pissed with my girlfriends and shag lots of cute men, so I crossed it out very carefully and wrote:
What can Lucy do?
Cook, sort of.
Use a computer, just about.
Dance, better than most.
Drink, more than most without falling over.
Discuss James Joyce, pointillism or glacial features well enough to earn me three As.
After another moment’s thought I wrote:
What can’t Lucy do?
Work hard.
Get up in the morning.
As she’s told.
That seemed to narrow it down nicely, so I made three columns and filled them in slowly as I sipped my drink.
Job Good Bad
McJob Lots of people Not much money
No evenings
Bosses
Office job More money Bosses
Evenings Boring
Stripping Lots of money Family freak
Lots of people
No evenings
Bosses
There was one big problem – the bosses. It didn’t matter if it was a little Hitler in a burger bar, a stuffed shirt in an office or a sleazeball in a lap dancing club. A boss is a boss, and bosses and I are a bad mixture. A few other options flicked through my mind – librarian? Mime-artist? Pickpocket? All of them had drawbacks. I also needed to be able to return home within three hours with the triumphant announcement of my new job. Telling Mum that I’d decided to become a pickpocket was really going to be popular.
I walked on, up to the Edgware Road. I ate a doughnut and let serendipity take its course. I had just about finished it when I realised I was standing under a sign for a temp agency – Super Staff. It had to be worth a shot. Cramming the remains of the doughnut into my mouth, I pushed the intercom bell. A woman’s voice answered and I was let up, into a small room with five blue plastic seats and a potted plant. The voice, now coming through a slightly open door, told me to wait. A second voice sounded, male, nervous and addressed to the first.
‘ . . . anything, really. You see, I’m really just waiting to see what comes up in my field. My PhD’s on cultural assimilation among the peoples of . . .’
‘Yes, Mr Robins.’
‘Dr Robins.’
‘Quite, Dr Robins, but unfortunately your qualifications are not suitable for us. Here at Super Staff we need commitment, a willingness to work to a flexible, efficient timetable. Personal presentation is also important.’
I quickly wiped my mouth in case there were any stray doughnut crumbs, simultaneously wishing it was as easy to put my bra back on as it had been to get it off. It was in my bag, where I’d stuffed it hastily after being caught by Father Jessop. I was very glad indeed that I hadn’t worn lippy. The guy had a PhD and they didn’t want him. What hope did I have?
Two minutes later he’d been bundled out, looking crestfallen, and I was face to face with the voice, a middle-aged woman called Mrs Maryam Smith, because that was what it said on her desk. She didn’t have glasses to peer at me over, but she should have done. Instead she looked down a long nose, then opened a file.
‘Miss Davenport?’
‘No. Miss Doyle.’
‘I have Miss Davenport for four o’clock.’
‘It’s only five to.’
She gave a click of her tongue and began to sort through a heap of files. I decided I ought to say something.
‘I don’t have an appointment.’
She looked at me as if I’d just confessed to being a serial killer.
‘I was just hoping to sign up with you, for temporary work.’
She gave a heartfelt sigh and shook her head. A brief flurry of paper and she was ready.
‘What experience do you have, Miss Doyle?’
Secretary to Father Donald Jessop of St Bernold’s Parochial House sounded good.
‘Until recently I was secretary to Father Donald Jessop of St Bernold’s Parochial House.’
‘Indeed? And why did you leave?’
‘Sadly Father Jessop passed away.’
‘I see. My condolences. Presumably Father Jessop’s successors will be able to provide references?’
Not good at all.
‘No, er . . . I’m afraid not. The er . . . the parochial house burnt down.’
‘How awful!’
‘I’d rather not talk about it.’
‘I understand, of course.’
The intercom buzzed. She spoke into it, then to me.
‘That is Miss Davenport. Please fill in these forms and I will be with you shortly.’
I took the forms, a white one, a pink one and a green one. In the outer room, a girl with long brown hair and serious heels – evidently Miss Davenport – was sitting on one of the blue chairs. We exchanged smiles as we swapped places and I began to do the forms. The white one wanted to know all about me, so I told them. The pink one wanted to know what I’d done and with whom, so I made it up. The green one had lots of boxes to tick, so I ticked them.
Miss Davenport had shut the door so I didn’t get a chance to earwig her conversation, although I’d caught a few words. She had a cut glass accent, public school for sure, which went with her appearance: a two-piece skirt suit of fine dove-grey wool, crisp white blouse with a thin black ribbon at her throat, silk tights, maybe even stockings. Little-Miss-Snooty all through, except for the heels. Her heels were four-inch stilettos in shiny black patent with a tiny scarlet logo at the outside, what looked like a burning H.
She came out not long after I’d finished doing my forms, gave me a glance I’d swear was pity, and left. I looked after her, thinking what a stuck-up bitch she was, before answering Mrs Maryam Smith’s call. Back in her inner sanctum she took my forms, glancing over them. By the time she’d got to the bottom of the one with all the little boxes, her frosty, formal expression had faded to something approaching affability. She nodded as she put them down.
‘Well, Miss Doyle, you’re certainly very well qualified, remarkably well for your age.’
‘The Church set very exacting standards.’
‘So I see. But still, with us you will be working in a business environment, under pressure, often called on to work unusual hours, and in general to maintain a proactive attitude to both ourselves and our clients.’
I nodded and smiled. I didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about, except for the bit about unusual hours.
‘I was required to start work at the parochial house at seven-thirty in the morning.’
Her eyebrows rose a fraction.
‘I doubt that will be necessary. But let us say, for the sake of example, a client were to ask you to accompany him for a weekend conference?’
I hesitated. The answer was that it depended how horny he was, but that didn’t seem likely to be what she wanted to hear. On top of Miss Davenport’s folder was a stapled sheaf of paper headed – Guidelines for Staff.
‘Naturally I’d follow the Super Staff guidelines.’
Her smile grew broader. It was the correct answer. She handed me a copy of the guidelines, three pages of small, closely spaced print. I bit down a grimace as she went on.
‘One last question, Miss Doyle. What would you bring to us here at Super Staff?’
I was ready for that one.
‘First and foremost, commitment, also good personal presentation and a willingness to work to a flexible, efficient timetable.’
She gave another pleased smile.
‘Well, Miss Doyle, naturally we’ll need to check your references, but I think I may fairly say that you will fit in very well with us here at Super Staff.’
‘I’m sure I will. Thank you.’
I got up, left and that was it. I had a job, or, rather, I would have a job if I managed to talk the people I’d given as references into covering for me. That was an itsy-bitsy problem, and something I needed to attend to sharpish. Not that sharpish, because a tot of Power’s was called for, to celebrate and to toughen myself up for the inevitable blow-up when I got home.
There was a pub directly over the road, the Bull. They didn’t have Powers, but they did have Jameson’s. I ordered a double. After all, for the first time in my life I was going to have some money to spare. As I turned away from the bar I realised that among the few others getting an early drink in was Miss Davenport. She was scowling as she read the document Super Staff had given her. I went towards her, hoping her heels said more about her than her dress, her looks, her accent.
‘Hi? You were in Super Staff, over the road?’
‘Yeah, daft bitch.’
She scrumpled up the document and dropped it into an ashtray with a motion of fastidious distaste.
‘Fuck that for a laugh.’
I was a bit taken aback. To hear her speak she might have been royalty, but she swore like my uncles.
‘What was it?’
‘First formal warning.’
‘Oh, right. What are they like at Super Staff? Strict?’
‘The u
sual bollocks. They expect everything for fuck all.’
‘Don’t they pay much?’
‘Depends. Generally ten or twelve an hour.’
‘Ten or twelve pounds an hour?’
‘Yes, mean bitch.’
Not in my books she wasn’t. Even at ten pounds an hour I would be taking home ten times what the parochial house had meant to pay me. I didn’t say anything, not wanting to look totally naïve, and she went on.
‘You get a specific rate with each job, depending on the skills you’ll be using. Half the time you end up filing anyway, and making tea and coffee. You’ll find that wherever you go there’s some guy on a power trip who wants you to be his personal tea maid. Women are worse.’
‘I can cope. I’m Lucy, by the way.’
‘Bobbie. Would you like another?’
‘I’d love to, only I’m a bit broke.’
‘Whatever. When I get kicked out you can sub me.’
‘OK, it’s Jameson’s.’
She went for the drinks, leaving me a little surprised, and quite pleased. I hadn’t expected her to be so friendly, but it was as if working for Super Staff made us instant friends. She seemed to know what she was doing too, which had to help. The moment she got back I put the question which had been uppermost in my mind.
‘Could you give me some advice?’
‘Sure.’
‘How quickly does Mrs Smith check our references?’
She laughed.
‘Did you give email addresses?’
‘No.’
‘Then you’ve got until maybe Thursday to sort out whatever you’ve been up to. She never rings, but I wouldn’t hang around if I were you.’
I nodded thankfully.
‘How does it work then, with jobs?’
‘It’s simple. You get a call in the morning, telling you where to go and who to see, then at the end of the week, or whenever, you get your boss to sign a time sheet.’
‘Sounds OK. What’s a “proactive attitude”?’
‘It means you have to give the male clients blow-jobs on demand.’
‘You’re joking!’
